Similar But Different

Similar But Different

Hold up any two items, one in each hand.
Lift them in front of you and stare into them,

one and then the other, reading and reading
them as if they were passages. These objects

are the same, they are light, they are smooth,
they remain inert and allow the pressure

of your eyes. But this one is dull and old,
has rolled in the dirt. And the other gleams,

unaccustomed to being touched. Your grip,
your gaze ties together what you consider.

These two items lean in, want to get closer.
The act of comparing is a magnet. They inch

toward each other, the dark thing brightening
and the shining one dimmer. Select any two

fragments, objects or people, ghostly-gone
or in our dimension, and see how they indeed

are similar but different. Now what. What
do you do with this knowledge. How can

you go back to seeing any thing in isolation,
knowing that all is affixed, like scissors.

Hands That Tremble

Hands That Tremble

Holding a dying creature during childhood
will leave you with hands that tremble.

The bird, tattered and bloody in the grass.
Restrain yourself from touching it.

The upturned, twitching moth, considering
its own mistake, bulb for moon.

The amputee cricket. The drowning worm,
stuck in a puddle. The punctured fish.

Your curiosity and compassion weaken you.
Watching a body go blank will tug

the ground up and down, infect you with tremors.
Yes, our footing is that precarious.

The Keys

The Keys

Chain the keys together. The look of their teeth
will tell you nothing, but at least they are fluent

in locks. Keys let us talk to our houses, our vehicles,
identify us as their careful owners. Here I am again,

we tell them, or I will come back for you. Tied together,
they are a record of belonging. Some show what

we used to own, or where we used to go: a house,
states away, or an office bulldozed three years ago.

A key can be homeless this way. And we see purpose
in it. One day, we will encounter a locked place

that we need to enter. And the key that fits into nothing
will whisper into this lock’s secret mouth, Let me in.

The Sink at Night

The Sink at Night

Confront the sink at night.
The mess will be easier to deconstruct.

While you wet the plates
and pots, you can look out at the dark yard.

Every place outside
the bright box of your kitchen is wilderness.

Connect with it. Task
your hands. The soap knows what to do,

let it. If you press past
the window, the parked cars and garages,

what rises up in you?
You scrub from the dishes what is inside

of your belly. Erasing
consequences is hypnotic. Tomorrow, when

you wake up, your kitchen
will show little evidence of how you have

put it right. You will be
startled by the pallor and emptiness of the sink.

The Wait

The Wait

Are you here, or are you waiting. When will it happen,
the next event, a shift. Your mind on your body’s roof,
looking up. The world’s enunciation turns crystalline.

You are concentrating on the future. Readying your eyes
for the bus, once it turns onto your block. Psychically
connecting with the phone to act the instant it is possessed

by the call. Anything not directly in front of you loses shape,
collapses, melts. Signs are everywhere, lightbulbs snap
and die, you run out of postage stamps. You slice a finger

scrubbing a knife. A song begins, slams your inner accelerator.
Now? Tonight? Next year? You’ve been promised magic,
a secret, glimmering door. You wait to be pushed through.